


To be Seen

by kjack89



Series: As Lovers Go [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine didn't need to be fixed. She just needed to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so this just kind of happened. My first time writing Combeferre/Éponine. Characterizations are probably hideously off. Modern AU? Canon divergent? I really don't know.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: anything you recognize probably belongs to Victor Hugo. Or someone else holding a copyright. All mistakes are my own.

Éponine was pretty, and she was smart, and she was just this side of dangerous, enough that even the toughest on the street knew better than to fuck with her. Even if she was out at three o’clock in the morning with no one beside her.

What most didn’t realize, what they never thought about, was that being just this side of dangerous had led to – or perhaps spawned from – being just this side of completely fucked up.

And though she might never admit it, her most private fear was that no one would be able to see past the pretty danger and see what was really there. She wasn’t even sure if there was anything there worth seeing. She just wanted someone to give a damn enough to try.

It was why she had fallen so hard and fast for Marius, for the cute puppy. He didn’t see her as dangerous, or even as just a pretty face. Of course, she also knew – though the small part inside of her that still loved him, and perhaps always would, denied it – that he didn’t see her as dangerous or pretty because he didn’t see her at all.

She just wanted to be seen.

* * *

 

It started, as these things sometimes do, with Combeferre glancing around the room tiredly one day following a meeting. He came to the rather sudden realization that he was alone. Not physically – the rest of Les Amis were still present – but without companionship. Perhaps without meaning to, their had splintered into couples (or, in Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s case, slightly more than a couple). Courfeyrac and Jehan sat in one corner, Jehan perched on Courfyrac’s lap as they whispered to each other. Grantaire and Enjolras were in the other corner, arguing heatedly, but Combeferre had glimpsed the love bites on Enjolras’s neck earlier in the evening, and even if they hadn’t admitted it to anyone yet – or even to themselves – Combeferre knew what was inevitably coming for those two. Feuilly and Bahorel had already left, striking out for another bar more populated with women. They weren’t together, not in a romantic sense, and yet their bond was close enough that neither was complete without the other. The odd triad of Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were huddled at a table, heads bent towards each other to murmur quietly. In the back, Marius and his Cosette cuddled, and next to them—

Ah. Éponine. The other odd man – woman – out.

Being Combeferre, his first thought was not that she was pretty, or that her legs were long and lean – though she was, and though they were. His first thought was that she was intelligent, with a rapier-sharp wit and enough streetwise sense to balance his bookishness. His second thought – still being Combeferre – was that it would logical for them to be together. They were the leftovers, and it didn’t make much sense to try and bring new people into the group. Not at this point anyway. His third thought was that she had the prettiest eyes that he had ever seen. His fourth – well, his fourth caused him to blush and cough slightly. That thought was best kept private.

Being Combeferre, he did not make a move that day. Or the next. Or the one after that. It was a week later that he finally sat down across from her, smiling at the way she was pointedly ignoring Marius and Cosette at the table next to hers, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. “Buy you a drink?” he offered, smiling as her eyes met his, a little wary, a little intrigued. “You look like you could use one.”

She smiled back at him, but it was cautious. “That’d be great, thanks.”

The first beer that he bought her that night turned into four, and he insisted on walking her home, not because she couldn’t take care of herself, he assured her, but because he wouldn’t be able to sleep not knowing if she had made it home alright.

They repeated this for the next several nights in a row. It never went further than drinks and walking her home. She never invited him inside. He never invited her to his. They didn’t hold hands (though sometimes their arms brushed from walking so close to each other). They hadn’t yet kissed.

But Combeferre couldn’t shake the feeling that the pieces were settling into place. That things were starting to make sense in a way they never had before.

Which was why, the next night after the meeting, he asked her quietly, “How would you feel about getting dinner tomorrow night? With me?”

“With you?” she echoed, arching one perfect eyebrow as she examined him with those inscrutable eyes as is looking for some hidden motivation.

“Yes, with me,” he said, then added, smiling, “Like as a date.”

She looked into his eyes, kind behind the smudgy glasses he wore. He had a quiet strength so different from any she had ever encountered. It was disarming how easily he had wormed into her life, how even now, smiling hopefully at her the way he was, he was shaking the foundations of the walls she had spent so long putting up around her heart.

It was everything she had ever wanted. It was everything she had ever feared. Which was why she stood up from the table, stammering, “I have to go,” before rushing out.

Men like him wanted nothing to do with girls like her. Even if he was capable of seeing past the pretty and the danger – which she had to admit that he of all people probably could – there was no way he would see past the damage. Past the broken parts of herself.

Men like him wanted to fix things. She didn’t need to be fixed. She just needed to be seen.

* * *

 

Combeferre frowned after her but did not stand to pursue. The logical side of him told him it was best to let her go, to not try and find her or argue with her.  _She’s too much for you, anyway_ , this side argued.

But a deeper side of himself, a side that had been dormant for far too long, remembered the look in her eyes when he sat down beside her tonight, the sudden vulnerability that flared for an instant before being replaced by something harder. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she dropped all her pretenses. He wanted to unravel her secrets layer by layer and let her do the same for him.

For tonight, he would not go after her. He would give her space. Because Combeferre was a patient man. And she was a girl worth waiting for.

But tomorrow – tomorrow he would find her. And he would make her see. It wasn’t because they were leftovers. It wasn’t because she was everything he had never dared to hope for. It was because it had almost ripped his heart out of his chest watching her walk away tonight. It was because, in the most absurd and illogical way possible, he loved her.

And he would make her see that.

**Author's Note:**

> To continue? To not continue? I have no idea.


End file.
